


the waves and I found the riptide

by betweenfactandbreakfast



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Daddy Issues, Disturbing Themes, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, M/M, Modern Era, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, mostly theon centric, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenfactandbreakfast/pseuds/betweenfactandbreakfast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon Greyjoy was only ten when his brothers were killed, only ten when his dad was taken to jail. The very night his father is snatched away, he strikes up a friendship with Robb Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first fanfiction for the beautiful ship of Theon/Robb. So I'm sorry if it sucks, but eh I tried. It will have a few more chapters but not a stupidly huge amount. Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. The title is by Beirut, as are the lyrics used.

_left a bag of bones and a trail of stones_

i.

When Theon had been very young his brothers had died, one after the other, and then they’d thrown his dad in jail.

Theon, his mum, and his sister Asha were left alone in the small flat above a fish and chips shop.

The day the sirens came was the day he’d met Robb Stark.

Living in a city you always heard sirens off in the distance, a constant part of the background, you get used to it, even, and suddenly if they stop it seems too quiet without them. It’s only when the sirens are right there, in front of your house, and red-blue-red-blue flashes through your window and burns a memory into your eyeballs you realise just how frightening the sirens really are.

Ten-year-old Theon wished he could crawl back into bed and press a pillow over his ears to block out the inhuman scream of the police cars and screw his eyes shut to pretend that the red-blue-red-blue was only a bad dream, but he was frozen. Frozen by the window, nose pressed to the cold glass and breathing mushrooms of vapour onto the smooth surface.

“They’ve come for dad.” Asha said, grimly. She was still in her bed, sitting up with that particular smirk of hers plastered across her face. She had no view of what was going on outside, but somehow Asha Greyjoy always knew these things. She was older than Theon; she called their mother “mum” and their father “dad”. Theon was little, and he still said “mummy” and “daddy”. But he wouldn’t, not for much longer.

“What’re they going to do to him?” He asked fearfully.

“Lock him up in jail. Or, maybe...” She trailed off, darkly, and Theon quailed.

Theon twisted away from the window to glare at her. ‘What? Maybe _what?_ ”

“I heard, for the really bad crooks, right, they put them in the electric chair.”

Theon wasn’t exactly sure what an electric chair was (he thought he’d seen some at the shopping centre that you could put coins in, but his mother had never given him 50p to give it a go) but now, with the screaming sirens and red-blue-red-blue lighting up the room, it sounded terrifying.

“They _can’t_ \- daddy’s not a crook!” His dad worked in the iron industry. Sometimes he’d taken Rodrik and Maron to work with him there because they’d almost been grown-ups. A lump formed in Theon’s throat at the thought of his brothers.

“Oh yes he is.” Asha promised, smirking. “He’s _evil._ ”

“Oh no he _isn’t!”_ Theon screeched, flinging himself at his sister. She squealed in shock as his fists tangled in her hair and _yanked_ with all their ten-year-old might.

“Theon- gerroff-” Asha shoved him away as tears blossomed in his eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

 _Too much. “_ I’m _not._ ” Theon said, desperately trying to hold in the sobs so that his sister wouldn’t see he was crying.

Asha saw. “Oh, don’t be silly, Theon, I was only joking-”

“I’m not _silly!”_ He yelled, and wiped at his eyes furiously before charging from the room. Down the hall, pull on shoes, out the door, across the landing, down the stairs two at a time. Jump over the bottom three steps completely. Once in the narrow, dark and dingy hallway that smelled like fish, he was running at full speed, ignoring the growing stitch in his side.  And then he was out onto the black pavement, out in the street.

He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t scared;  and he was a Greyjoy, just like his father who worked for Pyke Iron Industries. Someday Theon would work there too. He _had to._

Now the screaming was louder, the red-blue lights brighter. _I’m not stupid and I’m not scared._

Policemen. Three of them, and to Theon they appeared Titans, Behemoths, tall and stone-skinned and terrifying. And in between them- the glint of _handcuffs-_ Balon Greyjoy. His father. Theon’s  father, Balon Greyjoy, who one day was going to take Theon to the ironworks just like he’d done Rodrik and Maron, once he was older. He was only ten, but he wasn’t stupid and he _wasn’t scared._

“You CAN’T!” He yelled, and his voice echoed shrill but strong. The scream of the sirens almost, almost, for a heartbeat, seemed quieter. The policemen turned, and Theon saw their faces as they really were- stern, unsmiling, but human, so human.  His mother was there too, tugging at the ends of her hair in utterly shattering distress. She was scared. Theon could see it. He’d have to be brave for her too. “He’s _not_ a crook, he _isn’t!_ You _can’t take him!”_

One of the cops approached him, bent down so that he could stare straight at Theon. Theon stood rigid, acutely aware of the damp streaks that his tears had left on his cheeks.

“What’s your name, son?” His voice was almost gentle. Pitying.

 _I’m not your son. I’m_ his _son, but you’re taking him away._

And Theon realised he couldn’t be brave. He was a stupid scared ten year old who couldn’t be brave. All the times Rodrik and Maron had told him so, he should’ve listened, he should’ve, he should’ve- Theon glanced back at the steps behind him. The image was scorched into his mind- Rodrik, writhing over them, a stab wound in his gut and hand pressed over the blood, the blood, all the blood, the blood came in torrents and splattered over the steps, dark and thick and hot and smelling of death. Theon jumped over those dark steps ever since. Weak.  He was _weak._ Rodrik had told him so- how many times? _I should’ve listened._

“Theon. Greyjoy.” He mumbled, running a nervous tongue over his bottom lip and tasting blood there. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Ned- Ned Stark.” The policeman said. “I’m sorry, Theon.” He looked sorry, too. As if he really couldn’t help what he was doing, as if he couldn’t just let his dad go and leave and take the blood and the fire away with him. As if he couldn’t help ruining Theon’s family. “It’s very complicated. You’re going to have to be brave. Can you be brave?”

“I’m not stupid,” He said, dumbly. “And I’m not scared.” But it didn’t work anymore.

“Good, then.” Ned rose, turned, and he was a giant again.

Another policeman spoke up, gruff but not unkind. “You’ll all be able to visit whenever you like, lad.”

Theon looked at him doubtfully.

And then at his father.

Balon did not meet his eyes, did not do anything but stare at the ground.

“Daddy,” Theon swallowed. “You’re not a crook, are you?”

The first sob racked his body, but it did not cover the silence that stretched then. Not even the sirens and the roaring of blood in his ears covered that silence.

“Come on, haven’t got all night.” The last of the policemen, this time. His words were a knife; the silence snapped, and everything flooded out.

Crying was horrible; it was hot and full of snot and sniffing and shuddering breaths and Theon absolutely _hated it_ , yet he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t control anything. It was all slipping away through his fingers, too quick and ephemeral to snatch back.

And they left.

His mother said something, but Theon didn’t hear.

He ran.

The trainers he’d pulled on before leaving slapped pathetically against the pavement, one two one two.Once, he’d wanted the special kind that lit up when you walked. But they were too expensive, his mum’d said. Now, though, he was glad of it- the lights were too bright, too childish, too conspicuous. They were like the lights that had taken his dad.

He knew where the police office was well enough. He’d passed by it enough times on the way to the supermarket with his mum.

And sure enough, there it was, insides lit up brightly as Theon skidded to a halt outside of it. He pushed sticky hair from his face and walked forward. The first set of doors opened automatically.Then there was a heavy door that Theon had to strain against with all his strength in order to shift. Once inside, he glanced around- only a man at the counter, peering at him curiously.

If he said he was Balon Greyjoy’s son and if his dad really _was_ a crook- Theon breathed for what felt like the first time. The lie sprang, unbidden, to his lips, along with a smile. Smile. Just smile.

“I’m looking for Ned Stark.” He said. “My dad.”

“Oh, another one, is it?” Theon nodded politely, without the faintest idea what this could mean. “Well, if you’ll just wait down the hall with your brother I’ll send him by when he gets back.”

He nodded again, so caught up in wondering why they weren’t back yet to really process the rest of the sentence. At least, not until he was down the hall and face to face with Ned Stark’s real son.

The two boys stared at one another- Theon suspicious, the other curious.

“What’re _you_ doing here?” Theon asked, and it sounded more like an accusation than anything.

“Waiting for my dad.”

“Me too.” Theon said, and sat in the hard plastic seat next to The Real Stark.

“Your dad a policeman too?”

“No.” Theon didn’t lie this time, but neither did he tell the complete truth.

“Oh. Right, okay.” The boy had a curly, reddish-brown mop of hair, an honest face, and bluer eyes than Theon had thought possible. None of these traits did the Stark son share with the father, but there was a resemblance all the same. Something in the expression, or in the way they held themselves, almost. Theon wondered, stupidly, if it was like that with him and Balon.

“I’m Robb. Stark, my dad’s chief of police here.” He looked so proud of this fact.

“I’m Theon.” _Greyjoy. My dad’s a crook._ Nothing to be proud of. He swallowed.

“How old are you? I’m nine, oldest in my family. I’ve got a brother and two sisters.” Robb continued. No wonder the secretary had been fooled so easily- Ned Stark seemingly had offspring coming out of his ears. Despite everything, Theon grinned at the image.

He looked up and found Robb grinning back.

“Eight, but I’m the youngest. I’ve got a sister-” He stopped himself, because he did not talk about Rodrik and Maron. Not with strangers.

“Do you like football?” Robb asked suddenly.

Theon replied that he did. It was true, mostly. He didn’t like playing, not after getting kicked around by Rodrik and Maron as if there wasn’t a perfectly decent ball lying a few feet away. But he liked watching on telly. He liked the players, with their brightly coloured kits and overdramatised injuries. (He’d picked up some interesting swear words from whenever his dad’s team let a goal in, too.)

“Great! I’ve got a ball- look!” Robb reached to the ground by his chair and displayed a football- red and white, shiny, emblazoned with multiple Man U crests and one large and loopy signature. “We can pull the chairs around, use ‘em as goals, come on!”

So they heaved the seats into position at either end of the hall. Robb grinned, set the football on the ground, and backed up- then took a runner and sent the ball rocketing into Theon’s chest.

He went sprawling to the ground, and it was all so familiar. He’d forgotten just how hard the ground was when you were slammed into it. _You did that on purpose, you little-_ sour expletives rose to his tongue like hateful breaths, but they froze on his lips as he saw what was in front of him.

A hand.

Sweaty, a little bit grimy, with two of those colourful rubber wristbands around the wrist. Robb’s hand, palm open to help him up.

“Sorry about that,” Robb looked so sheepish, so guilty, so good-natured. “Didn’t mean to kick it so hard. You alright?”

Theon took his hand, was hauled to his feet.

He spied the ball lying some feet away, with its red hexagons and white pentagons, its Manchester United crests and its loopy signature, and he realised. He liked football.

“Fine,” He replied, suddenly exhilarated. It all seemed hilarious, like a joke that only he and Robb knew. Theon smiled. He liked smiling. He liked Robb. “But I’ll get you back for tha-”

“Robb, Jon, I hope you both-” Ned the policeman stopped abruptly when he noticed that it was Theon and not, as he presumably expected, his other son.

“I told your sons to wait here until you got back.” The secretary had followed, nervously fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves.

Theon let go of Robb’s hand.

“Last time _I_ checked, _you_ weren’t my son.” There was not a hint of malice in the way he said it.

Yet, still... _you called me son before._

“Dad, this is Theon.” Robb piped into the silence.

“We’ve met.” Ned said, and Robb swiveled around to stare at Theon questioningly. Theon shrugged.

Theon’s eyes roved across the secretary, who was looking a strange mixture of infuriated and uncomfortable, and found this for some reason to be unspeakably funny. He hid his smile under the pretense of wiping his mouth.

“Why are you here, Theon?”

“To rescue my dad.” What a stupid idea that had been, half-formed in his hysterical mind- had he _really_ thought that it would work? He was just a kid, just a stupid kid.

Robb’s grin dropped off in puzzlement. Ned only sighed. 

“I’m taking you home- your mother must be worried out of her mind,” The policeman said, before turning to Robb. “I know _yours_ is.”

“Can I come?” Robb asked, picking up the football and clutching it to himself.

Theon almost shouted _‘No!’._ He didn’t want Robb to see the fish and chips shop, or the dingy video club next door his mum said he wasn’t allowed to go in until he was older, or the steps that had once been dark and stinking with Rodrik’s blood. He didn’t want Robb to smell the fishy smell or hear the alleycats ripping each other to shreds. 

“No, you _cannot_.” Ned snapped instead. “You stay here with Vayon while I take Theon home.”

And then Theon was in the police car, resting his nose against the cold glass and watching the city slip by in a noodle soup of coloured lights.

Ned asked questions. _Where do you go to school?_ (I don’t go to school.) Silence. Then- _You don’t go to school?_ (My dad didn’t let me.) _Well, what do you do for fun?_ (Read.) _You can read, then?_ (Yeah, Asha taught me.) _Asha?_ (My sister.) _You’ve got a sister, then? Any other siblings?_ (I- no. No, sir.) _Do you get along?_ (Only sometimes.) _Do you have a lot of friends?_ (N- yes.) _What are they called?_ (Rodrik and Maron.) Swallow what life throws, spit out lies. _And are they nice to you?_ (Yes.)

The dead, after all, cannot hurt you. What is dead may never hurt you, thought Theon, not ever. Not ever again.

* * *

ii.

The day after he’d met Robb Stark, Theon’s mother had announced that he was starting school on Monday- the same school, incidentally, that Ned Stark’s children attended. The people in his class would be a year younger than him, but that was fine. _Robb is a year younger than me._

Some days after school, Theon went to Robb’s house. It was a proper house, a fact which amazed Theon, detached with two floors and a special space to park the car. And lots of kids. _Robb Jon Sansa Arya_. Arya just a baby, Sansa a toddler who carried round a sparkly pink handbag, Jon a sulky kid only a little younger than Theon, and Robb... Robb was Robb. Theon’s friend- the first, really, the first friend he’d ever had.

Theon’d stopped reading.

He’d started collecting football cards. He had twenty-seven, but his favourite was Lionel Messi, who played for Barcelona. His dad had _hated_ Barcelona FC. _My second favourite after Manchester United,_ said Robb.

Almost at once he’d noticed something was different about Robb’s brother, Jon. He was quiet, sullen, with a perpetual scowl eclipsing his face, but that wasn’t all. Catelyn, Robb’s mum, seemed to  step around him carefully, deliberately staring anywhere but at him. And he never met her eyes, either, but glanced down at his plate and muttered a _thank you_. He never called her ‘mum’, or ‘mummy’, or even ‘mother’. _Yes, Mrs. Stark. No, Mrs. Stark._ Just like Theon had to. Theon wondered at this. He also- jealously, perhaps, though he would never admit it- wondered why Robb seemed to hold Jon in such esteem. Or as a matter of fact any esteem at all. Jon was dead boring, not to mention the constant nebula of gloom and doom that perpetually hung around the boy.

When Theon had been friends with Robb for a month, the eldest Stark child let slip  that Jon was, in fact, not Catelyn’s son, but the son of Ned and another woman.

That explained a great deal, Theon thought later as he watched the illegitimate Stark mope around the bottom of the garden. (The Starks had a _garden._ ) Jon’s back was to Robb, clad in what was probably Robb’s old shirt since it hung off the scrawny kid as if his skin was too big for his bones. Theon had experience with that; after all, all his clothes had been either Rodrik’s or Maron’s (or both) at one time or another. On a few occasions Catelyn had seen him and at once sent him home to change because his shirt said something mysterious like _never mind the bollocks, here’s the sex pistols!,_ or _i’m with wanker_ and an arrow that generally pointed towards Robb.  

Theon gazed dumbly for a few seconds at the way the sunlight glanced off of Jon’s furiously curly hair, and then, somehow, a rotten apple had mysteriously found its pomaceous way to split across Jon Stark’s back, spraying  soggy chunks over the unfortunate boy. Bits even got in his hair, clinging to the dark strands like dew to blades of grass. Theon snorted with laughter as Jon wheeled around, red-faced and indignant.

“Oy, you did that on _purpose!”_ Accusation and rage frothed in his eyes, but Theon only found this all the more funny.

“Yeah, so?” He glanced around to see where Robb was- out of sight by the garden shed- and delivered his killing blow. It wasn’t fair that he, _Theon,_ was the only outsider here, it wasn’t fair that he didn’t get to be part of this perfect family and perfect life as well. “What’re you going to do, then- cry to your mummy?”

“I don’t have a mum.” Jon replied steadily, although clearly hurt. “But at least _my_ dad’s not in prison. At least my dad’s not a _scumbag_ -”

Theon didn’t remember flying across the grass at him, but suddenly he was crashing into Jon and horrible, horrible words were spilling from his mouth- words he’d learned from his brothers and his father; his fists were battering every inch of Jon Stark he could _reach_ , it was a blur of elbows and ribs and legs and feet and skin too fast for Theon to realise what he was doing. But, dimly, he did realise that _Jon was losing._ He could _feel_ himself winning, a sensation as alien to Theon as having a friend had been at first and as having a decent family would always be. He’d never ever felt that before because Theon Greyjoy always lost his fights.

This time, though, it was different.

It was pure and undiluted euphoria.

But suddenly he was pulled roughly off of Jon and he saw blood on his knuckles, blood just as red and as thick and dark as Rodrik’s had been, and it occurred to Theon that _everyone_ , no matter their differences, bled exactly the same.

“Are you _mental?_ ” Robb. Furious.

Yes, maybe he was mental. Theon wondered- if everyone bled the same, did they all feel shame the same as well?

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

Theon could taste something sour on his tongue. “Beating him up, what’s it look like?” He snapped mutinously, wiping a hand across his mouth and leaving a trail of blood across his face like warpaint. “He had a go at my fucking dad, the fucking-” He struggled for words, and failed.

“You shouldn’t use those words.” Robb said reproachfully.

“Who says?” Spat Theon, angry even at Robb. Even at himself. “My brothers use them all the time.” _Used._ It hit him again: Rodrik and Maron were gone, and his dad too, and he had nobody now because Robb was mad at him. Tears sprang to his eyes, hot and prickly.

“Brothers?” Robb blurted, the anger in his voice replaced by sincere puzzlement. “You haven’t got any brothers.”

“Yeah I have. I mean, I did, I-” Blood on the steps. Knife in the belly. Needle in the arm. Wires to the skin. He did not talk about Rodrik and Maron, he did not, not to anybody, not when they’d been stabbed and overdosed respectively and not when they’d been alive and tall and cruel.

“You’re lying.” Jon said.

“I’m _not_.” What is dead may never die, may never hurt you not ever again. “They’re dead. They’re dead, alright?”

“I’m sorry.” Robb said. Unlike the others, all the others, he sounded sincere. Something embedded leagues within Theon began to repair itself.

“It’s- ‘s alright.” It was, a little bit. A little bit more alright than before. “I’m sorry too.” He added. “Sorry, Jon.”

Jon mumbled a sorry in return and Theon decided the business was over. Mostly.


	2. Red Fingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops, chapter two took me forever, sorry. But here it is at long last. Warning: it's fucking depressing. If you're looking for fluff this is entirely the wrong fic for you. (Also, at some point a certain character says some homophobic things. Obviously this is not a view I share but I just thought I'd warn you.) I hope you appreciate all the references to lines from the books/show because I thought I was very clever using them.
> 
> Lyrics by Beirut again. (the whole album The Rip Tide is so Theon ughhh)

 

  
_I can't belong to winter_   
_I can't put on your fire_   
_This town is alone and therefore_   
_I see no end in sight_

i.

Years later, and Theon’s fingers tightened around his spoon as he shovelled shredded wheat into his mouth (the only cereal they had left) and deliberately did not look at his mother.

Deliberately not looking at his mother was an art he’d perfected over the last year.

Asha had gone now, but Theon and his mum still lived in the flat above the fish and chips shop.

He supposed that no matter how much time passes, some things never change.

 _A week’s time_. Theon had never been good at keeping track of things, but he’d thought he would at least remember what was happening in a week’s time. This event was so important, and he’d forgotten.

His mobile phone, resting on the table beside his cereal bowl, lit up, buzzing violently. His mum’s eyes flickered towards it, alarm briefly painting her features.

“That’ll be Robb.” Theon said, although she never asked. He swallowed the last of his breakfast and got to his feet. Sure enough, the screen blared the name of his best friend above the little ‘calling’ icon. “See you later, mum.”

He kissed the top of her bald head. Once, she’d had beautiful dark hair like Asha’s, only longer. Now there was just a row of wigs in the hall cupboard for when she went outside. (Not often. Not anymore.)

_Your mother has invasive ductal carcinoma..._

Theon pressed the green key on his mobile.

“Robb?”

His fingers shook as he held the phone up to his ear.

“ I’ll ring you back in a bit. I’m on my way.”

Before Robb could respond, Theon had hung up and entered the bathroom, pulling on the light cord. There he discovered that there was almost no toothpaste left in the tube, and what little there was was impossible to extract.

In the end he had to cut the tube apart with his penknife and sort of smear the inside onto his toothbrush.

All in all, it was a rubbishy start to the day.

Theon grabbed his faded leather jacket off the hook as he exited his flat, with the other hand pushing the keys necessary to call Robb again on his mobile. Tucking the phone between ear and shoulder, he fumbled with the door but somehow managed to lock it, and then he was on his way. Across the landing, down the stairwell that smelled like fish, jump over the steps that’d once been dark and sticky with Rodrik’s blood (some things never change) and finally Robb picked up.

“Theon?”

“No, it’s the bleeding Ghost of Christmas Past.” Theon snapped, a bit angrier than he’d intended.

“You alright there?” Robb replied, sounding slightly alarmed. And crackly. The service round Theon’s neighbourhood was shit.

“Sorry. I just  had to hack open my toothpaste with a knife so, you know. Been a shit morning. You?”

“Been a shit couple of days.”

_Been a shit couple of months. Couple of years. Couple of lifetimes._

“So what is it?”

Robb’s tone was grim, and Theon could almost see his expression. “Actually, I’ll just tell you about it when you get here.” _Click._

“Thanks for wasting my minutes for nothing, you arse.” Theon grumbled, thinking that he’d probably need to get a top up at the next possible opportunity. He never knew when the clinic people might call about his mum.

He arrived at the bus stop, by lucky coincidence, just as the bus did; pressing his bus card against the reader, Theon made his way to the almost-but-not-quite back of the bus and sat down heavily.

The bus hummed under the soles of his worn trainers.

_-I’d have to recommend chemotherapy, but it might be-_

He leant the side of his head against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes. His head pounded. A week’s time. So fast... if he thought about it, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. On top of everything, it was overwhelming.

_-difficult-_

He pushed it out of his mind and hopped off the bus.

Two street blocks, then Robb’s flat. (Robb had his own flat.) He was met at the door with a miserable Robb, an excitable dog, and the news that Jeyne Westerling was no more. Or at least, no more in the Integral Part of Robb’s Life sense. Theon wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either.

He’d first heard of Jeyne Westerling roughly a year ago, and he hadn’t really stopped doing so since. He was intermittently bothered and amused by Robb’s devotion to the girl. He had never had anything against her, not really, but the fact that she took up such a large part of Robb’s life (and his thoughts) was honestly a bit annoying at times.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel miserable at the sight of an utterly despondent Robb, who concluded his woeful tale on a Swift-esque, _we are never ever getting back together_ sort of note.

“I’m sorry.” _Robb’s free again._ “That was shit of her.” _We can go back to how it was, without all the jeyne-wouldn’t-like-it and all the excuses-_

“It’s my fault.”

“No! I mean, what decent girl would let you go? It’s her fault. She has problems.” He was probably required to say that sort of stuff by law. “Maybe some sort of relationship problems. Commitment. I hear that’s difficult for some people. I wouldn’t know, obviously, I’ve never tried commitment myself. I-“

He was bollocks at this.

“Fancy a walk?” He tried instead. When Robb looked uncertain, he added; “Come on, bring Grey Wind along.”

“He needs the air.” Robb agreed finally.

 _So do you,_ Theon thought. Robb looked as if he hadn’t slept in a decade.

 

Somehow, when he was with Robb, he forgot. Forgot everything, but later he remembered.

* * *

ii.

Twenty-eight hours later, and Theon’s fingers pulled on the seatbelt strap to make sure it was tight enough.

“No- No, Theon- don’t make me go, don’t let them take me-“

It wasn’t the cancer, but maybe it was because of the cancer. She’d always been frail, and maybe she was just too frail to deal with this, not on top of everything.

Theon swallowed and clicked the buckle securely into place. “You’ll be alright, mum.” He said. His throat felt so dry, his lips too blistered to even talk. “It’ll be over soon, and you’ll be home before you know it.” She hated going to the clinic, his mum did, and he hated sending her to a place she so despised, but he _had_ to. He _had_ to, it was her only chance of getting better. With Asha away with the military she was the only family he had, she was his mother. She’d always been that, just like she’d always been frail. Now she was frailer than ever, and he was lost.

“But your father’s coming back! And Asha will too, if we call her, I know she will. And Rodrik and Maron-“ ( _Blood on the steps. Needles in the arm_.) “-your brothers, I’m sure they’ll be here soon- I ought to cook- to cook dinner for them, they’re coming all the way from the ironworks, you know-“

“She in? I’ve got five more to pick up after this.” Dan the Clinic Van Man did not have a whole lot of patience. Theon thought he should probably have a different job.

“Yes, just hold on a minute.” Theon grabbed her hands, held them tightly and felt them tremble within his own, larger hands. “Mum. Mum- _Mum._ Rodrik and Maron aren’t coming back, and Asha’s with the military now.” He could feel every bone in her hand. Had she always been so thin? _Of course not, she used to be better, and she’ll be better again, you’ll see._ “But it’s fine. Don’t worry, please. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” How cruel was the universe’s sense of humour; Theon remembered a time (not so long ago, not really) when their places had been reversed.

 His first fight with Robb, and he hadn’t wanted to face school whilst estranged from his best friend. His mum had made him write a note saying sorry, and she’d promised it would be alright before he knew it. _You’ll see_ , she’d said. And it had been alright, hadn’t it? And it would be again, it had to be, because without that hope Theon Greyjoy was truly lost.

“Take care of her, will you?” He said, finally letting go and stepping back. Dan only glared in return, as if it were stupid to ask such a question.

“Wanker.” Theon mumbled under his breath.

And then they left.

Theon did not run after them, as much as he wanted to. It was not for her sake that he wanted to stop the van and take his mother back, but for his own. _Selfish idiot,_ he thought as he stepped over the first two steps (Rodrik, red death pouring from his body. They’d learned in school that blood was red because of the billions of little red cells that were in it. Theon thought it was red because of anger.) He wanted what his mother could no longer provide- safety, comfort, hope- but instead he had to give that to her, and he couldn’t, he _couldn’t,_ he was so weak. _Weak, it rhymes with-_

His mobile phone buzzed.

Robb, calling again. Honestly, it was only Robb, the clinic, or Asha that called him these days. (He’d gotten a bum dial from Robb’s sister Sansa once, which begged the question of how and why his number was even on her phone in the first place.)

“Hey.”

Perhaps Robb heard the brokenness in his voice, or- it didn’t matter.

“…Alright there?”

 _Yeah, fine,_ he meant to say. _Just bad reception,_ he tried to say. _I’m alright, how about you?_ He wanted to say.

“I-“ _Am fine never better brilliant lovely absolutely bloody fantastic._ “No.” He said.

Silence. Then, as some part of Theon had hoped- “I’ll be right over.”

And he was, although Theon didn’t even hear the doorbell ring. Robb had a spare key, though, just like Theon had a spare key to Robb’s flat.

“My dad’s going to be let out on Wednesday.” He said, surprisingly calm, as the figure of his friend loomed above him. “And my mum’s gone even more mental than usual. She’s convinced Rodrik and Maron are going to be popping round for tea later on.” He laughed, a humourless bark that did nothing to make him feel better.

“She’s not mental, Theon.” Robb reached down and pulled him to his feet. (When had he sat down?”)

“No, she is. Gone completely round the bend. Completely-“ He wanted to punch something- the wall, himself, Robb- but his hands were frozen. “Fucking-“

“Theon, stop. Just-“ Robb guided him to the sofa, sat him down. Theon could tell he was going to release him, and he didn’t want that. He wanted to be connected to something, anything, or he’d float away, rotting driftwood on a polluted tide. Panic gripped him- instinctively, he tightened his grip on Robb’s hands.

“Your dad will help with your mum, won’t he?’ Robb said, sitting down at his side. “It will be easier then.” Theon wasn’t aware of wanting to believe those very words so badly; when Robb spoke them he readily and greedily did so.

“You’re right.” He said with a measure of confidence.

“See, and you know I’ll always help.”

“You’re helping now.” Theon pointed out.

“Right. Now, and always.” Robb smiled, and he might as well have stuck a Hoover down Theon’s throat and sucked all the air out of his lungs.

“Thanks.” Theon said, feeling distinctly stupid. He let go of Robb’s hands.

Robb clapped him on the back. “You’d do the same for me.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Shut up, you prat. If you weren’t my best mate, I’d-“

Theon leaned forward and kissed his cheek before he was aware of what he was doing. A second later when he pulled away his lips were burning.

“I meant it. Wanker. Thanks.”

* * *

iii.

Six days later, and Theon’s fingers dug so tightly into the leather steering wheel that he was surprised it didn’t rip apart.

It was Robb’s car, and obviously so. There was a little wolf charm dangling from the mirror, and dog fur clinging to the passenger seat. (hopefully, his father wouldn’t mind.)

As he came to a halt for a red light, Theon made an effort to brush the worst of the mess onto the car floor.

The red light seemed to take an age. He returned both hands to the steering wheel and waited, watching the perpendicular stream of traffic wink by, car after car after car. Finally- green, and Theon pushed down on the pedal with enthusiasm.

Sixteen minutes later, and Theon’s fingers felt thick and clumsy as he filled out a form. His dyslexia always got worse in times of stress, and the letters on the form were so small…

One-hundred ninety-three seconds later, and Theon’s fingers tapped the edges of a hard plastic seat, so similar to the one Robb had been sitting in when he’d met him so many years ago.

An hour eight minutes forty-three seconds later and Theon’s fingers gripped his father’s back in a hug, because even though he remembered everything in reality he’d forgotten…

Twenty-eight minutes later and Theon’s fingers curled into fists as shame beat a fresh bruise through him.

Countless blurry moments later, and Theon’s fingers stabbed viciously at the doorbell of Robb’s flat.

Infinite millennia later- or was it only half a heartbeat- and Theon’s fingers tangled in the curls at the back of Robb’s head as he kissed him…

But we’ll get to that.

“Dad.” The word felt as if it had not been used in an age.

He looked smaller, cleaner than Theon remembered. His eyes were flint as they took in the sight of his youngest son. His only son, now.

Theon waited, desperate for a reaction of some sort. At last he got it- a gentle exhale, a few lines on his face smoothening in what- recognition? Happiness? Pride? Love?

It was funny how Theon remembered all of it but had forgotten so much.

Balon Greyjoy ran his tongue over his lower lip.

“Where’s Asha?”

“Oh, er- Asha? She’s away. With the military.”

“Enlisted, has she?” Two beats. “And what about you?”

“What am I doing, you mean? I- well, I was going to school. But I’ve had to drop out, because-“

“University, you mean.” Too late, Theon remembered exactly how his dad felt about university and school in general.

“Not anymore.” He said.

“I see.”

“I had to drop out to take care of Mum.” Theon explained. “She’s sick. It’s cancer.”

To his confusion, Balon gave no reaction to this except a soft snort of disbelief.

“It’ll make her happy to see you again.” Theon pressed. “She’s been in bad shape lately. Sometimes she thinks Rodrik and Maron are still- well, it will make her happy.”

Balon nodded and that encouraged Theon somewhat.  He stepped forward to hug his dad, gripping his back tightly.

“I missed you.” He said as he stepped back.

His dad gave a small smile.

Balon climbed into the passenger seat as Theon started the ignition.

“This is your car?” He said, with surprise.

“No, it’s Robb’s. I borrowed it. I usually just get around on buses or on the tube.”

“Robb.” Repeated Balon, suspiciously.

“Robb’s my friend. You’ll like him, he’s a great guy.”

They joined the traffic streaming around the roundabout.

“He is, is he?”

Theon grinned- Robb was a subject he could easily talk about. “Yeah. He’s my best friend- we’ve been friends for years. I really don’t know what I’d do without him.”

His father stared straight ahead, unreadable. “Does he live close by?”

“I have to take a bus to get to his flat every day, but it’s not too bad.”

“Every day?”

“Well, most days, anyway.” Theon rounded the bend, wishing the streets in London weren’t so confusing.

“So you spend a lot of time with him.” There was something in his voice then, but Theon did not notice.

“More than anyone.”

Silence.

Theon felt he ought to break it.

“Listen… sorry we haven’t been around to visit for… ages. Mum didn’t- and then she got sick, and…”

“Asha visited me.” Balon said, effectively shutting Theon up. “Asha, a girl, and she behaved more like my son than you.”

It felt curiously as though someone had replaced his stomach with a walnut. “Dad, I didn’t-“

“Didn’t have time, is it?” Balon’s voice was almost shaking, as if from some long-repressed anger. Theon was starting to remember. “Too busy fucking your boyfriend, is that it?”

_“What?”_

Theon forgot he was driving and they almost slammed into the car in front.

“I get out of jail, and what- my only worthwhile kids are dead or in the military and I’m left with a fag for a son and a half-dead nutter for a wife? Is this the proud Greyjoy family now?” He snorted angrily.

Theon felt himself unravelling on the spot, then twisting back up into horribly complex tangles. This had to be a bad dream, borne of stress and anxiety…

“Dad, I’m not- Robb's not my- I’m not gay. And Mum’s- she’s not a nutter.” His dad was just angry, that was all, angry that Theon hadn’t been to visit in so long… “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t visit, alright? Mum didn’t want me to-“

“Your _mummy_ didn’t want you to, so you didn’t.” Theon was determinedly keeping his eyes on the road, but he could hear the sneer in Balon’s voice. “My god. Asha told me they’d given you a place at that school, but she never told me they’d turned you into a _girl_.”

“I’m not a girl.” Was all he could say, as if he were five and talking to Rodrik or Maron. Had his dad always been like this, deliberately wounding him wherever it hurt most? Had he just forgotten?

“Sitting bloody pretty in your boyfriend’s car- ‘I’m not a girl’, he says.” The look in Balon’s eyes, this time, was readable- disgust. “So when’re you going to become Mrs- what’s his surname again?”

“Stark.”

Balon almost laughed. Theon couldn’t remember him ever laughing, and he was unlikely to after spending a decade in prison. “Next you’ll be telling me he’s related to that tosser Ned Stark who put me in that shithole in the first place.”

Theon refused to react to that, but he must have stiffened accidentally because somehow Balon understood.

“You’ve got to be bloody joking.” Balon threw himself back against the seat. “So on top of being a bleeding faggot, my son is a traitor to his family.”

“ _Traitor_? Dad, this isn’t some- some war, or a family feud- he put you in prison because you broke the law, that’s-“

“And now you’re shagging his son. The universe has a bleeding sense of humour, doesn’t it? Maybe he’s like a dad to you now- will he walk you down the aisle?” A snort of contempt. Theon shrank. “That’ll be a sight, won’t it? Ned fucking Stark walking Theon Greyjoy down the aisle- got a dress picked out yet?”

“Ned Stark’s not a dad to me.” It was true; the Head Stark had always treated him with suspicion and even slight contempt. Anger suddenly filled him, and for the first time Theon understood what it meant to 'see red'. He swerved the car angrily, pulling up to the curb.

“What are you doing?” Balon snapped.

“Get out.” It didn’t sound like Theon saying those words, but then again, what did he know about anything anymore? “You don’t like Robb, this is his fucking car. So you can walk.”

The wolf charm on the mirror swung wildly to and fro, describing perfect circles in the air.

“I knew they would ruin you at that fucking school.”

“Oh you did, did you?” Theon almost laughed. Almost. “Then maybe you shouldn’t’ve landed yourself in fucking _prison._ Maybe you shouldn’t’ve gotten Rodrik and Maron involved in your fucking drug schemes until they got themselves _killed._ ”

(Blood on the steps. Needles in the arm. Silence.)

(Silence.)

 “I said, get out of the car. Besides,” Theon took a breath and ploughed on ruthlessly. “Once I fucked Robb up the arse in that seat. You might catch the gay disease or something.” (Extremely untrue, but could someone _else_ please feel uncomfortable for a change?)

He felt substantially better, and he smiled. An emotional wall of teeth and lips and apathy.

Balon Greyjoy did look extremely uncomfortable. And livid, disgusted, and shocked. At last (stiff, silent, like a corpse) he opened the door and stepped out of Robb’s car.

“You’re a disgrace.” He spat, summoning from somewhere the reserves of Greyjoy pride.

A hundred joking retorts came to his lips, but Theon said nothing, just pulled the door closed and started the car back up.

As the grey, hunched figure of his father grew further and further away, Theon realised that he was shaking. Every part of him was shaking, eyeballs to fingertips. Instinctively, he missed the turn for his street and doubled back toward Robb’s.

As soon as he realised what he was doing and really, truly, _why_ , he froze.

Once, Rodrik had called him ‘gay’ and Theon had had to ask Asha what it meant.

_It means you like boys more than girls._

_I do, Theon said impatiently, girls are annoying._

_It means you want to kiss boys._

Theon at five years old had not wanted to kiss much of anything, but it had seemed obvious as he grew that he wanted to kiss girls. That fact was part of him, a layer of the persona he had built up over the years.

(Lips, teeth, fingers, red blood.)

They said he was always smiling. He wore his smile like armour.

Theon parked the car in Robb’s usual spot, twisted around and buried his face in the headrest of the driver’s seat.

He wore his pride like skin, and without skin he was really- what? Just a lump of flesh and blood?

The leather of the seat smelt like Robb, and in his mind’s eye he saw Robb- smiling, laughing- and for once he actually noticed the sensation of his heart quickening and his stomach knotting anxiously. _Robb_. Robb, who’d taught him there was nothing wrong with football if everyone played fairly; Robb, with whom he’d climbed countless fences and vandalised countless items of school property. Robb, who loved his family and wanted to be a filmmaker and a football player and a political activist all at once. Robb, whom he lo-

_Too busy fucking your boyfriend, is that it?_

It was funny how everything changes yet nothing really ever does.

_On top of being a bleeding faggot, my son is a traitor to his family._

_Is this the proud Greyjoy family now?_

Rodrik, blood pooling, redder than anything he’d ever seen, so red Theon’s coloured pencil snapped beneath his fingers as he tried to colour in his picture for school.

Maron, fingers trailing the bottom of the bathtub and a needle still stuck in his arm, lifeless, so lifeless that Theon’d screamed and screamed when next they took him to the doctors and tried to give him a vaccine.

His mum, so weak and absent. Asha, gone.

Robb had such a nice family, nice life, nice everything. _How could someone like that ever be a brother to me?_

He rang the doorbell and it took Robb three destructions and re-creations of the universe to answer, but then he did.

“Theon- what is it? I thought you said your dad-“

“Fuck that.” Theon said and- knowing quite well what he was doing, but not really knowing at all- pulled Robb’s head towards him and kissed him.

If Theon’s eyes had been open he would have seen Robb’s own eyes widen in shock and then drift closed. But Theon’s eyes weren’t open, so he just felt, unmistakably, Robb kissing him back.

Roughly, Theon tore away.

“What are you doing?”

Robb gaped at him. “What am _I-_ what are _you_ doing?”

“Kissing you, what’s it look like?” He wasn’t really sure what he wanted more now- to punch Robb, to kiss him again, or to cry into his shoulder. (Except not the last one. Greyjoys didn’t cry.)

“It looks like you’ve gone mental, that’s what it looks like.” Robb had somehow gotten himself backed up against the wall, and he stood there, looking confused and a little outraged and it made Theon want to kiss him again.

“You’re s’posed to- to push me away, or ask me what the hell my problem is.” Theon snapped. “Not kiss me _back_.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint you.” Robb said. “What on earth’s got into you?”

Theon wanted to explain, he really did, but what came out was: “I told my dad that I fucked you up the arse in the passenger seat of your car.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Robb’s mouth was hanging ever so slightly open, as it did when he was in shock. That also made Theon want to kiss him.

“I came to see if I’m gay.” Theon said. “I came to see if I’m in love with you.”

“I-“ Robb managed a syllable but quickly fell silent. That made Theon want to punch him.

“You know what-“ He reached for the door. “-I’m leaving.”

Robb grabbed his arm. “You aren’t going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck happened with your dad.”

“That’s none of your business, Stark.”

“Yes it- Theon, you’re my best mate, I’m not just going to-“

“To _what_? Let me out of your god damn flat?”

“To stand round while something’s obviously going on.” Robb snapped. “If you really are in love with me- that’s fine! I don’t mind, of course I don’t mind. We can- we can work it out, or… and if you aren’t in love with me, that’s fine too.”

“Let go of me, Robb.”

Robb did so.

Theon backed away, out into the landing.

“Theon…”

Robb, who accepted him no matter what. Robb, who once smuggled fourty quid’s worth of spliff into school in his water bottle when Theon asked him to, because no one would ever, ever suspect Robb Stark. Robb, whom he loved-

“I don’t care if this sounds stupid but-“

Robb, who insisted he was invited to the Stark’s Christmas dinner every year.

“I do love you.”

God, he really wanted to kiss Robb Stark.

He really was in love with Robb Stark. When had that happened?

“My mum’s coming home from the clinic. I’ll- see you later.”

He really was an idiot.


End file.
